


Snow

by bluminic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cliche, Doctor John Watson, Dreams, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pre-Slash, Sickfic, Snow, Snowed In, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluminic/pseuds/bluminic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weather forecasters are predicting "the storm of the century" and Sherlock isn't home yet. Watson worries and waits--and begins to dream...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Coming Storm

**Author's Note:**

> A few wintry clichés for the American Sherlock fans facing down this week’s blizzard (and everyone else shivering in commiseration). Please pardon any accidental Americanisms.

It was three hours after nightfall and there was John Watson, in his jumper and pyjama pants, at his usual post in the kitchen, waiting: waiting for the kettle to boil, waiting for his readymade frozen dinner (cottage pie) to reheat, waiting for Sherlock Holmes to come home. Although he had never been a patient child, John had grown to tolerate waiting through his long hours spent at a lonely post in Afghanistan, countless overnight shifts at the hospital, or most of all, what he was doing right now—waiting for _arrives dramatically in his own time_ Sherlock to come home, case solved.

It wasn’t the waiting that had him on edge tonight—acccidently spilling his loose leaf Lady Gray on the counter, forgetting at first to take the plastic lid off the cottage pie, walking to the window every few minutes to peer down at the street in anticipation. Sherlock rarely told John in advance of his comings and goings, and even when he did, a late arrival was not out of the ordinary. The tea, the pie, the errant flatmate _who had not even bothered to text_ —all of it made for quite a normal Monday night. What was not ordinary was the weather.

On a normal night, John could hear the distant honks of cabbies and chatter of passers-by in the streets from the front room of 221B Baker Street. He could hear the steady clomping of Mrs. Hudson’s sensible shoes on the stairs or Sherlock’s light, quick steps as he raced up after having solved a case. Now, all he could hear was the wind howling outside as it whipped through the narrow streets, shaking trees and pelting London with thick, wet, treacherous snow. He had even muted the telly; the sounds outside were dire enough without the constant reminders from those daft local news announcers that it was “the storm of the century.” As Sherlock would say, _obvious_.

The kettle finally whistled at 19:43. John made himself a cup of tea and checked on his pie as he let the tea steep on the counter. Concluding that the pie was sufficiently defrosted, he pulled it from the oven, sliding it on to a small plate before carrying both tea and pie to his favorite armchair. He tried to eat slowly in front of the flickering screen, savoring the comforting ritual consumption of one of his favorite meals. He tried not to look at his cell phone, tried not to be disappointed by the lack of new messages.

At 19:49, John gave up. Scrolling past texts from Mrs. Hudson, who was still on holiday in France with her sister, he opened his text history with Sherlock. _Nothing new_. Still sipping the remnants of the tea, John scrolled up, hoping for the tenth or so time that day that he had missed something telling in their prior communications. But no, the texts from the whole day were still the same; they still read:

_10:12 I have a new case—not even a 4. Was Lestrade dropped on his head as a child? –SH_

_10:13 Lestrade is just fine. Not everyone can be you, thank goodness. Think of it as a vacation. –JW_

_10:14 A locked room murder is a vacation. And what do you mean, “thank goodness?” –SH_

_10:14 Are you teasing me? Your sense of humor does not convey adequately via text. –SH_

_10:17 Haha. You mean I’ve fooled you. –JW_

_10:18 Don’t be an idiot, John. I only wish for you to learn to explain yourself more clearly. –SH_

_10:25 John? –SH_

_10:28 What? –JW_

_10:28 Are you ignoring me? –SH_

_10:29 No, I have a patient. –JW_

_10:30 I see. Unfortunately, this case, though still rudimentary, may require more thought than I had previously anticipated. I.e., any thought at all. –SH_

_10:30 I shall still return tonight before nightfall. I foresee being in the mood for a takeaway curry. –SH_

_10:34 Does that sound satisfactory? –SH_

_10:37 Sorry about your case. Curry it is. –JW_

_14:40 Sherlock—have you seen the weather report? I think the curry may have to wait. –JW_

_14:41 We still have some frozen pies. I’ll make sure to get milk on the way home for tea. –JW_

_14:50 Sherlock? –JW_

_14:51 Currently occupied. All sounds satisfactory. –SH_

_16:21 Are you on your way home yet? –JW_

_17:02 Sherlock? The case can wait. I think you should come home now. –JW_

_19:14 I put a pie on. I can make yours when you get here. Which I hope is soon. –JW_

That was it; no more news from Sherlock, even as the sky had darkened into a menacing, deep gray, as night had fallen, as road closures continued to scroll across the television screen. Although he reassured himself that his flatmate’s absence probably signified nothing— _Sherlock, being irresponsible, as usual_ —John was starting to feel that cold, hollow feeling at the pit of his belly, the one that he always got when he knew somehow that a member of his company in Afghanistan might not be coming home.

Oddly, despite his worry, the caffeine from the tea, and the early hour, John was beginning to feel sleepy. He stood, stretched, and walked to the window. He pushed aside the curtains to peer outside, but he saw nothing. _Well, that is odd_. He opened the window a crack and instantly regretted it; heavy flakes of snow flew into the room on a blast of Arctic air; the howling of the wind grew even louder without that single pane of glass mute the sound. Shutting the window, he pushed the curtains all the way aside and stared out into the street. Still nothing, not even a faint glow from where he knew the lampposts stood. _It was a whiteout. Storm of the century, indeed_.

He paced back to the chair and collapsed into it, pulling over himself the hideous, heavy blanket that Mrs. Hudson had knitted them for Christmas. John had never been one to fall asleep in a time of stress, but the warmth of the blanket and the flickering glow of the fireplace (he had turned the television off) were making his eyelids droop. _Surely,_ John thought, _Sherlock must have holed up somewhere warm and just forgot to check his phone, or the battery’s dead, or he’s out of range._ He checked the time once more—21:43—and sent a final text before his eyes closed:

_21:43 Sherlock, please—wherever you are—please be safe. Love. –JW_

*****

John was dreaming. That he knew for sure. There was no way in John’s waking life that Sherlock would be snuggled on John’s lap, the detective’s long legs dangling to the floor with his head resting gently against John’s shoulder. There was no way that Sherlock, eyes closed, would be whispering into John’s ear, his breathy intonations carrying more meaning through their style than their substance. Then John was lifting a hand to gently caress Sherlock’s cheek, murmuring his own nothings, his own little terms of endearment that came so easily within this dream. _Sherlock was so warm_ , John reflected; _how had he ever thought that the consulting detective had an icy demeanor?_

Sherlock smiled, then stiffened as if he had heard John’s thoughts. “John,” he whispered. “Where have you been?”

John shook his head in confusion. “What do you mean? I’m right here.”

“John?” Sherlock asked again, his voice somehow weaker this time. “John?”

“Sherlock?” John answered, the final syllable strangled in concern. Sherlock had fallen limply against him and his body, stiffening, was turning into _a dead weight_.

Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes. John gasped when he saw them: they had gone as pale and cold as ice. And now John noticed, as if for the first time—Sherlock’s skin was translucent; his lips, purple; and his teeth chattered as he spoke. “John, I’m so cold.”

That was when John woke up.

*****

The doctor jolted out of the armchair, knocking over his teacup and sending its cold remnants to the floor. The apartment had gotten chilly, too; the fire had died and evidently the electric heating system had been knocked out by the storm. John looked at his phone—23:20—no messages—and then rushed again to the window. Although the snow was still falling thickly, the air had cleared; he could once again see the monstrous humps of cars parked in the road, their shapes barely illuminated by distant street lamps. There was nothing moving in the street, no sign of life. He opened the window once more and stuck his head outside, just to check—and then he saw it.

There was a form curled up on his own front stoop. It wasn’t moving. It was approximately the same size as the world’s only consulting detective.

Slamming the window shut, John raced through the apartment, out the door, down the stairs, and unbolted the front door, yanking it open with more strength than the good doctor knew he had. The conclusion he had reached from the apartment above had been correct—it was Sherlock. Although the consulting detective might, overall, be the quicker of the pair to make deductions, John had Sherlock’s condition diagnosed even before he knelt beside his friend. _Barely conscious. Confirmed hypothermia; probable frostbite at extremities, most likely nose and fingertips, based on clothing choices. Prognosis: not optimal._

Lifting the detective over one shoulder, John carried him inside and up the flight of stairs, barely feeling the weight in his haste to bring Sherlock in to the warmth. As he lay Sherlock on the couch—currently the closest and warmest surface in the house—he heard Sherlock mumbling quietly, and John realized that he had himself been reciting an empty litany of soothing sentences.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

“I’m here, Sherlock,” John replied, continuing to inspect the detective in the slightly better light. _Yes, hypothermia; he needed to get Sherlock warmed up, and fast. And—what’s this? Bullet wound to the shoulder, blood frozen around it. Prognosis: very not optimal._

“I…apologize…for my tardiness,” the detective mumbled. Then he promptly fell unconscious.

 


	2. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a dangerous night out during "the Storm of the Century," Sherlock barely manages to make it back to John's doorstep. Will John be able to save Sherlock? And what about that dream that John had earlier, dozing by the fire?

Sherlock Holmes might be the only person in London who could determine a man’s occupation by the way he held his umbrella, a woman’s financial status by the shade of her lipstick, or a child’s parentage by the way he licked an ice cream. Sherlock might ridicule his flatmate’s slowness to understand such thing; the doctor, after all, might need one more clue, a few more minutes to reach the same conclusion. The doctor, Sherlock often complained, let his emotions blind him to what was _clearly obvious_ in the face of logic. But when it came to medicine—particularly the kind involving gunshot wounds and extreme weather conditions—there was no man quicker, more observant, and more precise than John H. Watson. He never let his emotion cloud his judgment of a patient’s condition—even if that patient was Sherlock. Who his subconscious, at least, was definitely starting to view in a not entirely platonic light.

John knew what had happened to Sherlock, to his body, within the minute had taken to carry him up the stairs and lay him on the couch. _Half-frozen, half-sodden clothes; bullet wound, entry from the back, no exit; minor rips and tears to clothing. There were two of them, the enemy. Sherlock hadn’t counted on two of them. He was shot from the back and fell, probably into the Thames. Phone lost in the river. He swam to shore, managed to lose them in the snow, and used his encyclopedic knowledge of the city to find his way home. Brilliant, except it almost killed him_

From the sound of it, the weather was calming down. _That’s the only good news_ , John thought as he moved around in the near darkness in now-chilly apartment. But his hands worked quickly, automatically to tend to Sherlock, who was now alternating violent spasms of shivering and total stillness on the couch. He checked Sherlock’s pulse—weak but regular—and breathing—shallow, irregular—then set up his cell phone as a flashlight so he could see more clearly. A quick poke to the fire gave him more heat and illumination, enough to see clearly for the first time. _His clothing is wet halfway through, needs to come_ off, John thought. _Here’s the scarf, gloves, shoes, socks. Thank God, no frostbite. Trousers, coat, and shirt are going to need to be cut off—he’s not going to like that, not the coat_. What Sherlock liked at that point was irrelevant, however; for one, he was still unconscious. Two, it would be necessary to save the detective’s life.

John whispered “I’ll be right back,” even though he knew Sherlock couldn’t hear, and ran off to the kitchen for the scissors. Luckily, he tended to clean when he was worried; much of the evening had been devoted to scrubbing the counters and returning all implements to their proper places, meaning that the scissors were actually in the right drawer. Placing them on the counter, he dashed up the stairs for the spare blankets in his closet and the thermometer in the bathroom closet. _Much warmer up here_ , John thought; _maybe if he’s stable enough…_

Returning to Sherlock, he mechanically cut off the offending coat and shirt. He maneuvering carefully around the bullet wound, which began to bleed again slightly from the gentle force of his movements, but was otherwise seemed stable. Gently shrouding Sherlock’s top half in blankets, he started on the trousers, which came off quickly. He was left, then, with Sherlock’s pants, which surprisingly were a set of boxer briefs, the same blue as the man’s eyes. It was the first thing he had seen that night that gave him pause. Still haunted by his dream, John realized that while he had seen Sherlock naked (briefly, not on purpose), he had never seen his flatmate in just pants before. _Will I see this again? Do I want to see this again, or was the dream just…?_ He shook his head firmly, squared his jaw, and dismissed the thought, removing that last piece and tossing the shredded pants onto the growing pile of ruined clothing on the floor.

Task finished, he bundled Sherlock in layers of blankets, lifting carefully and wrapping gently. _Still breathing_ , John noted, _more slowly than before. Not good_. He pulled out the thermometer. _How bad are we? Do I really want to know?_ _32 degrees Celsius…shit. Just, shit._ John knew that if he couldn’t get Sherlock warmer, he would never know the answer the questions his dream had posed. _And—the part that would have bothered Sherlock—never gotten to know if he had deduced the cause of injuries correctly_.

John smiled a little at that thought, then braced himself for what he knew he needed to do next. _Body heat. With no working heater in the apartment, it’s the only way_. With no room for both of them on the couch, he carefully lifted his bundled flatmate one more time and—a bit more awkwardly, due to the low ceiling—carried him up the stairs into his room, where John knew there would be a properly made bed and blankets. “Ok, Sherlock,” John said, placing the detective on his bed, “You’re going to have to share. I know how you hate that.” Sherlock moaned at the sound of John’s voice, which he took to be a good sign. Unwrapping Sherlock, which made the unconscious man shiver, John rearranged the blankets so they could both fit under. Stripping off his clothes, he climbed in and wrapped his arms around Sherlock without hesitation.

The man was so cold. _How could anyone be this cold?_ _Well, at least I’m always warm_ , John thought, snuggling closer. He lay there in the dark, listening as Sherlock’s breathing and heartbeat became more regular, then as his skin began to warm. Through the space between the curtains, John could see that it was now a gentle snow that had begun to fall. 

After what might have been an hour, or two, or three, or four, John heard Sherlock gasp, then cough a little. John looked over as the detective’s eyes opened slowly. He could tell that the detective’s brain was still fuzzy, so he was surprised when Sherlock’s first word was not a question, but a statement:

“Hypothermia.”

“Yes,” said John.

“Frostbite?” asked Sherlock. John could feel him try and fail to move his digits.

“Unlikely,” said John.

And then, Sherlock said something surprising. He almost whined. “John, I’m cold.”

John almost laughed. Good old petulant Sherlock; it was said in the same cadence as his more usual “John, I’m bored.” John replied, “Not so much anymore.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Do you want to know--?” John cut him off. “There were two of them, right? A shot to the back, you went in the lake, lost your phone, found your way home.” It was too dark to see, but John could almost feel Sherlock smile.

“The bullet?” Sherlock asked. “Tomorrow,” John replied. A moment passed in silence.

“Will I be okay?” asked Sherlock. John nodded. Then Sherlock asked, “Will you be okay?”

John paused before answering. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock coughed again, then said, “It’s obvious. Your worry. And then, this—“ John knew he wanted to gesture to their current physical arrangement, but couldn’t.

John chuckled. “As long as you’re here and well, I’m very ok, Sherlock. Now stop talking and try to get some rest.”

“Okay,” said Sherlock, and he snuggled in closer. At last, he said, “Home…I knew if I only made it home…”

“I know,” said John. “You’re home. We’ll be okay.” _You are my home,_ John thought. Sherlock closed his eyes once more, but John lay awake, watching the snow fall and the sun rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thanks for reading.
> 
> I might be convinced to add a coda (with them both conscious!) if there is interest...


End file.
